Thursday, December 3, 2015

My name is LC and I have a problem with alcohol. After a couple of beers, a few glasses of wine, half a bottle of champagne, aperitifs, digestifs and maybe one or two whatifs, I find myself far more enthusiastic about the prospect of Scottish dancing than is considered decent in polite society. The Willow was Stripped bare, the White Sergeant Dashed like there was no tomorrow, and Gordon was so Gay they gave him his own parade. Obviously I'd prefer to avoid any sort of folk dancing entirely, but if people are going to insist on it then I'm giving 100% commitment. I roll deep, innit. My feet ached like fuck the morning after – I'm just glad I stuck with sensible shoes instead of wearing heels (transvestitism is rife at Scottish weddings, I was tempted to join in but thought better of it).

All in all a good wedding, a nice short ceremony, quality nose-bag, and a gorgeous setting - although holding it in two castles was possibly just a touch showy (ceremony here, reception here). The best bit, of course, was spending a few days hanging out with chums surrounded by the best scenery Britain has to offer. I'd happily relocate to the highlands tomorrow if it wasn't for a few trifling concerns like having a career and social life. Incidentally, if you're looking to taste the best fish and chips in the world you'll be hard pressed to beat this place.

I'm now slightly sunburned, aching all over (from all the dancing and hillwalking and drunken ninja-skillz demonstrations), and feeling extremely unhealthy after spending the last seven days stuffing myself stupid and drinking heavily - perfect condition for starting a big new job in the morning. Go me.